Friday Fragments: Gringa in the Kitchen

As she pressed the wand against his genitals, she said, "Oh, yes. We do scrotums all the time here."

Alas, this isn't the first line of my yet-published romance horror novel. This is what Lisa, the kindly radiation tech, told me after finishing Joel's ultrasound.

Allow me to share the details and more with you via Mrs. 4444's weekly hosted segment, Friday Fragments. Thanks, as always, for hosting!




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What did we learn from Joel's ultrasound? His right testicle is shy (as I write this, I hear George Costanza shrieking, "I was in the pool! I was in the pool!") and has yet to descend. His lefty, though, has a hydrocele, with about 9 cc of fluid. We will get a referral to a urologist, and surgery is likely. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted with news of all things scrotum. 

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I had some "me time" this morning. Meaning, I had a pap smear, followed by an eyebrow waxing. I texted a single friend about this, and she was, understandably, horrified. Simply appalled. "This is not me time," she wrote.

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My gynecologist said, "I've never had a patient get pregnant with Mirena."

I swallowed a gallon of air, and said, as non-hysterically as possible, "Well, isn't that the whole point of an IUD?"

"Yes," he answered, "but you never know."

Of course you never know. I've got a 31 year-old brother that is walking, living (and beautiful) proof that determined sperm can kick the ass of any IUD.

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Later that morning, as I laid on the table, waiting for Linda to clean up the unholy mess known as my eyebrows, I heard her muttering to herself in Vietnamese. She called to a co-worker. The co-worker came rushing into the waxing room and they had a spirited debate in their bubbly native tongue. It involved repeated gesturing towards my eyebrows, shaking of heads, and lots of pointing.

My only conclusion is that my eyebrows were so appalling that she felt compelled to call in a second opinion. A fracking consult. I must have looked alarmed, because she reassured me, "No. No. These Easy."

I don't believe it.

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As the holidays approach, my mind turns to tamales. When I lived in Arizona, we ate tamales on Christmas Eve. Amazing, homemade, spicy-savory, ecstasy-inducing tamales. Many families in the area made mountains of tamales. It's a charming tradition, where there's lot of talking and playing while hands do repetitive work.

When I was teaching, I would inappropriately and nonsensically discuss tamales in blatant attempts to procure them: "Romeo and Juliet's love is both fiery and explosive...like a perfectly made tamale, without olives." or "I can't decide if I'm going to assign homework this weekend or not. It's hard to grade homework when eating tamales. I wonder where I could get some?"

Even when my subtle attempts were not successful, there would often be a kindly gentleman selling them by the front door of the grocery store.

Just sublime.

Alas, though, the tamales here in Maryland are...lacking. They are too corny or, heaven forbid, made with Chesapeake Blue Crab. Unacceptable.

So, this gringa is going to attempt to make her own tamales. What happens when a white German attempts to make her own masa? I will share it all.

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And, if you can't get enough Nancy Campbell, I guest-posted at Corrie's lovely blog: Just Because My Pickle Talks Doesn't Make Me An Idiot. Check out my entry, and her many entertaining posts as well.

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Happy Friday!